


The Cure

by chocolatemilk2



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Broadcast Fic, Gen, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemilk2/pseuds/chocolatemilk2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this (pretend) episode of Night Vale, Night Vale is hit by a nasty virus, and traffic becomes dubiously unremarkable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cure

**Author's Note:**

> Weather lyrics by me. Please note-- I am not a songwriter. I just like poetry and I thought what the weather would be like and heard this fun tune in my head. I'd play it for you but I can't sing or make the right chords. I think bpm is like 110.

Bats only fly backwards. They walk on their feet while you are sleeping, and scuttle back to the ceiling like winged spiders. Welcome to Night Vale.

Word has it that a new remedy for an unusual strain of virus has been floating around town this week. The strain itself has been described as "slightly," and, "a bit of a strain, like reaching for a high shelf." This has not pacified the virus sufferers, who are adamant that the virus is airborn, and causes its victims to; recall humiliating moments they thought they'd forgotten, scratch at their skin screaming in archaic Scandanavian tongue, and their bones and teeth to coil with an unprecedented and oddly birdlike dexterity. Sounds nasty, folks! I for one won't be headed out for the bog gale fireworks tonight. Keep that wet weather sunscreen on.

The rememdy has incited or very own mayor Pamela Winschell, whose daughter is suffering from the illness. Get well soon, Veronica. Get well soon or the librarians will consume your animate body. Mayor Winschell rejected vaccination as a treatmant prospect and spoke her approval of the concept of a natural bloodletting healing, as per tradition. She described in vivid detail her dislike of wolf spiders, and contemporary medicinal body altering substances. "No really, but have you seen those things?" She asked me with her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. "They're /furry/. They crawl out from under your shoes, and behind your posters, and the eyelids of people you love as they turn to kiss you in the evenings. By George." She then preceded to dab at her brow and satanic cross herself. Mee too, Mayor Winschell. Me. Too.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

Do you often believe in your perception of reality? Also, do you believe in your perception of reality, but find you cannot trust it to be the correct reality? What is reality anyway? Get a new reality, the reality you deserve. Buy one today, and get a small dose of unreality free! Existence is fragile and our competitors like crocs. You didn't hear it from us. You sure didn't. Hear what? I wan't saying anything. Talking, I don't know why you would think that. Nope. I'm not even on the air. Hahahaha!

I've just received a phonecall from Erika, who is definetly not an angel or real, about the mayor's wolf spiders. Erika says that evidently, listeners, Mayor Winschell has never ordered a spider at a club before. Wolf spiders are fun and surprisingly non venomous. You can hold and play with one one for the night, or, rip off its legs one by one and comsume its abdomen whole. If you are listening Mayor, I would reccomend the rasberry flavour, it is packed full of zest.

I asked local scientist Carlos - yes, him! - about the virus cure slash epidemic, and whether he wanted to go for a walk with me by the clock tower. Carlos was stopping by to use our bathroom, as his emergency eye wash station was malfunctioning with tacos. Let me tell you, that man is all professionalimsm. He is a pretty serious fellow, our Carlos. Carlos said that he wasn't sure where the outbreak had arose from but he had been examining the strain under controlled conditions in his lab and it definitely isn't the human Salmonella virus. Well, isn't that something. Music to my ears! Our academic community always reponds to minor epidemics thoughtfully and orderedly.

I've been thinking about thoughts, and whether they are real or not recently. Comsidering them as is now city mandated as from Tuesday's announcement. Thoughts are like tiny strands of hair poking out of our brains and brushing the shoulders of those around us. They can be cut short or let to wind in long spirals to curl around our toes and irritate our family members. Who knows what you will think next, a new thought or an old one? My thought or your own? A strand can go wherever it pleases.

At the same time, it is important to take care of our mental health, listeners, brush those nasty knots, trim split ends, and treat oily, brittle frizz with leave in conditioner. It is easy to become worried when you get ill or unfortunate, but don't let insecurity stop you from living life. A mental bad hair day is in fact, not the end of the world. It's just another part of it. We all make mistakes, so just, let it go. Accept unchangeable circumstances, unforgettable past mistakes. If you nurture your hair, maybe you'll get luschious volume like the entity from that add. I sure hope so, anyway. It's cute to be smart and secure and loved. Love yourself when no one else will, in case no one ever does. You know? You'll always be there for yourself, if you let yourself be.

Controversially, John Peters - you know, the farmer? - has decided to sell his farm. His crops of infisible corn just didn't cut it, said the real estate agent, smoking a low tar cigarette by the back corn gate. Unsure of whether this still makes him a farmer or not, but this reporter is opting for the former. If you can hear me John, don't let that frankly ridiculous imposter business get to you.

Update: city council has called to tell you that thoughts can't move wherever they please, as previously stated. Thought can only move diagonally, OR horizontally, OR legally. Vertical thoughts, are not worth it. Niche slant thoughts put your life at moderate risk. While they called, I asked them for any updates on the virus cure. None, they said. The small orphaned child said nothing, so that's how I interpereted it.

Wait. The child's coming back. Look, I can't find a home for you, okay?

Oh! This doesn't appear to be about that. Via outlandish facial expression, the child seems to be saying that ex-mayor Wincshell has defintely found a cure! The cure is.. A rare species of orchid, Cattleya... And it is being handed out in the abandoned mine shaft outside of town. There is... A plentiful supply, so come quickly... Before you succumb to its miserable final stage!

Did you hear that, everybody? I repeat-- city council has stated that the cure for the virus is located in the abandoned mineshaft outside of town. It is a rare species of orchid called Cattleya.

Happy, excellent news. Me and everyone here at the station would like to extend a hearty good luck and congratulations to all those being treated. Excluding station management,  whose views were not solicited. And to miss Winschell: thank you, for once again serving our community to your best ability, even only as an ordinary citizen.

You see now, Night Va-- Oh... Just a moment. I'm getting word the cure has been thrown into question, and fights are breaking out at the abandoned mineshaft... City council states that this is not true. The cure is definitely not psychiatric adjustment, and mayor Winschell is definetly not working together with the new government to sumbit everyone to mandatory re-education. That's just silly.

Well. Isn't this a surprise? It is being alleged, that the the virus is actually a ploy for ex mayor Winschell to regain her position as ruler, by planting the virus and precuring the problem. Which is really unfair guys. And a very serious accusation.

I think things are really getting out of hand here. We all just need to calm down, take a deep breath and go to--

The weather.

(Bmm bmm tshh budmm dum tshh bmm bum tshh bu bumdudum tsh

The colours of your eyes  
Are like the colours of my hands  
When I'm too nervous to break into sweat  
Bright, light pallor and off beat sallow and wondering where you're at

But I  
i know

That the tips of the rooftops are just the summers of the hoops not hanging by the old basketball court  
The years of wind have made me feel destined   
So I'm amended by the loops of your fresh dark shoelaces not goldenrod bewteen my spacers

And I know  
i know

That we're allright

Strum strum strum strum

You hover by the door  
And i can't pretend to not notice anymore  
How your grin is like perfection bottled into my selection  
Of all the places that we've been

And i know  
Yes i know

That we're allright

I wait beneath the new lot  
Feel the cushion on my dunlops  
Watch the clouds' shadows being quiet  
Feel my heart worry wonder why it?

And i know  
I know

The caws of segulls are the borders of the cruiser hulls  
Like the edge of the ocean skimming cold water between my fingers  
And memories abound theyre spinning round and round  
A top that will never fall there it is made all in all

Yeah i know  
I know  
We'll be alright

 

Strum strum strum pshewww)

Oh listeners. As it turns out, beautiful, sunshiney Carlos was exposed to the virus when there was a breakout in the lab. I lived in fear. In horror, overcome by a uselessness faced by a situation out of my depth, out of my control, out of my hands. 

But Carlos. Did he slump? Did he shout, and cry? No. He stood, mouth working foreign babbles, and he pushed to the front of the still brawling crowd. He held the flower up in a sort of flask, and though his eyelids were heavy with unwanted regrets, reported that the 'virus' was in fact, hayfever! He had conducted tests, late into the night. He had greviously validized complex proofs. He had studied on his fellow scientists and they had studied on him. There was no final stage. Hayfever could cause colds if left untreated, but all they needed was some hot soup, and lemonade, and time.

The crowd quietened, and the fist victim, Mayor Winschell's daughter, stepped forward. She was sided by Tamika Flynn and she was completely healed. 

"It's true," Veronica said. "We live in a desert. Deserts have lots of dust, and allergens and stuff."

Well.

I am proud of Carlos. As a boyfriend, I am proud, as another academic, I am proud of him. But also as a fellow citizen of Night Vale, and a fellow being. We have banded together. We have had a false start, but we did not give up, Night Vale! Not on our passions, nor the ones we love, nor each other!

I hope that is what we hold on to, as we soon make to our beds, hands clutching teddies and pillows and knees. The hope that drives us to help others, and to understand them. To understand ourselves. The dreams that define us, much more than the nightmares.

Dear listeners, wherever you are, I hope your nights are as uneventful and non-toxic as the rare brazillian Cattleya flower, asleep in the sunless jungle of evening.

Good Night, Night Vale. Good night.


End file.
